Dead bones, God’s sinews, a level of blues.
Seeing life has animosity, seeing it never changes, a sickness to appease it.
A prayer at it, early morning meals, fasting for a week.
And trying to be real, to tell how it happens, much has become ironic.
Used to adore it, guarded by ideals, everything wobbles.
Loving sensation, reminiscing upon those years, trying to get beyond silence.
We get to screaming, damned for existence, framed in fusions.
Something regular seems offensive, appealing to higher waves, where most are participating.
A ditch of bones, a sky filled by regrets, at memories, trying to excuse betrayal.
Nobody calculates it, to adore like pure innocence, to find life in grays.
Talking in private, articulating thoughts, asking for something unreachable.
It never happens, a slave at it, like warring self.
But thoughts are sunrise, raw forgiveness, such a moment in midst of hells.
Feeling rejuvenated, ironing infractions, bled of Faith—adoring Faith.
Petty arts, heavily armored, still vulnerable.
Many belts, across globes, speaking Jesus, most treacherous.
I'll leave it there
